Their father had been a brutal man, and upon his death, the Dowager Duchess had done her best to eradicate his memory from her life. Arthur watched as she portrayed the grieving widow in public, but cursed his father’s name behind closed doors. Arthur honestly could not blame her for hating his father, but he could not condone her behavior towards his siblings.
Without a consistent source of care, discipline, and love, the twins were growing increasingly out of hand. Arthur knew it was time to intervene and arrange for another governess. When his mother paused during her tirade to take a breath, Arthur used the opportunity to interject a solution. “I will put out an advertisement for another governess today. Perhaps instead of going through an agency this time, we should try a local woman.”
“Yes, perhaps we will find a creature so poverty-stricken that she will have no choice but to remain for the duration of the abominable urchins’ minority,” his mother agreed with enough venom to make a viper envious.
Arthur felt a deep empathy for the twins. He strove to let them know that they were loved every day, but a brother’s love could not replace that of a parent, and neither of their parents had ever shown an exuberance of affection. The exact opposite had been displayed overabundantly throughout his own childhood, and the only affection given him was from the household staff.
Arthur left his mother to churn in her bitterness and descended below stairs to find his head housekeeper. Mrs. Philips had lived in the neighboring village long enough to know who among the local women would make a competent governess for the twins. She had served as a second mother to him from birth, and he trusted her opinion explicitly.
He knocked on the door of her office and was bade entry. As he crossed over the threshold, the housekeeper arose from her chair to curtsy. “Your Grace, how may I be of service?”
“Mrs. Philips, please sit. I wish you would return to calling me Arthur.”
“Ah, but you are young Master Arthur no more, Your Grace,” she reminded affectionately.
“I suppose not,” he replied regretfully. “I have a request to make of you. As you are all too aware, the twins need a new governess. I have decided to forgo the agency and procure someone locally. Do you know of an appropriate candidate?”
“I might. I am due to visit a friend of mine upon the morrow. She has a daughter who is of an age and temperament for the position. I will present the idea to her and see whether she is amenable to the task,” Mrs. Philips offered.
“That would be splendid. Thank you, Mrs. Philips.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” She curtsied, bending her greying head in deference.
Arthur momentarily wished he were a boy once more so that he might crawl up into her lap and be soothed, comforted by the knowledge that at least in her, he had a safe place to hide from the woes of the world. Unfortunately, those days were over, and as the Duke of Rosenhill, such responsibilities now befall him. It was his job to provide succor and comfort to those under his care in ways his father never had.
“Will you be going out again tonight?” Mrs. Philips asked as he turned to exit the room.
“Yes.” Arthur paused to answer. “Father’s misconduct was more far-reaching in its effects than I had anticipated. There are many in the village that live in poverty due to his unsavory business dealings, and were I to go out every night for a year, I would not have begun to make reparations.”
“You are a good man, Your Grace. There are many that will eat tonight because of you,” she praised.
“What is it the Bible says about the sins of the father?” he asked bitterly.
“That they shall be visited upon the sons,” Mrs. Philips walked over to place a hand upon his arm.
“I will never outlive the shame he has brought to our family name,” Arthur lamented.
“It is not your responsibility to pay for your father’s sins, but the fact that you are willing to make his wrongs right is a testament to your true character. There are children who will go to sleep with a full belly this night who would otherwise be whimpering with hunger in their beds. You did not cause their misfortune, but you have chosen to be their redemption. Let go of the past, step out of your father’s shadow, and embrace the light that is within your heart.” Mrs. Philips squeezed his arm in encouragement then released it.
He smiled down into the gentle hazel eyes of this woman and thanked God for her presence in his life.
Were it not for her, I would have given up and run away a long time ago.
He would never forget the first time his father had beaten him, or the gentle way in which Mrs. Philips had picked him up off the floor and tended his wounds. He had only been three years old. Twenty-three years later, his father moldered in the ground and Arthur ruled supreme. He had learned to be a man by doing the exact opposite of everything his father had ever done.
Good riddance.
He knew that the proper thing for a son would have been to mourn his father’s passing, but in truth, he did not lament the loss. If anything, he felt a sense of relief that he and his siblings would no longer be forced to cower in fear through another one of his drunken rampages. When Arthur had been old enough to do something about it, he had stepped between his father and the twins to spare them the physical violence that he himself had so long endured.
It is nothing short of a miracle that I survived childhood to become a man. I honestly believe Father felt threatened by his own progeny. As his heir, I reminded him of his own mortality, and for that, he made me pay in blood. His method of death was a fitting tribute to his life.
Hugh Huntley, the former Duke of Rosenhill, had died while out riding. The official magistrate’s report had declared it as murder via highwaymen, but Arthur was fairly certain that his father’s demise had been brought about as a result of his rapacious lifestyle. His father had exploited his tenants and employees, blackmailed his peers, and extorted local businesses unto poverty. Arthur was sure his father had done even worse things than that but lacked the proof or full knowledge to do anything about it.
The late Duke had developed an extensive network of criminals to do his bidding that now fell under the auspices of his father’s business associate Ludlow Finch, the Marquess of Denlington. Their criminal empire had grown unchecked as there was never any solid evidence that could link them to the crimes. People were loath to believe that a wealthy nobleman, such as a duke or marquess, would soil themselves with criminality.
Arthur had hoped that with the passing of his father, the Marquess would have stopped his regular visits to Rosenhill, but instead, Denlington had continued to visit the Dowager Duchess multiple times a week. He supposed it was good for his mother to have a friend to share her many complaints with. After all, no one had known the former Duke better than Denlington.
Mrs. Philips interrupted his thoughts. “I will have the cook prepare everything you need for tonight.”
“Thank you. What would I ever do without you?” Arthur smiled fondly at the housekeeper.
“Let us hope you are never forced to endure such an atrocity,” she teased, affectionately patting his arm.
“Quite so. I will be down after everyone has gone to bed.”
“The food will be waiting in its usual place.”
Arthur departed, returning to his duties above stairs. He had not realized how much of the estate’s wealth had come from his father’s less than savory activities until he had inherited the title. His first order of business had been to go over the books, and he found a great many discrepancies. This caused him to further investigate his father’s business dealings, and it revealed that the late Duke had been the ruin of many a local businessman.
Tonight, he had plans to visit a local wagon maker whom his father had overtaxed. He intended to bring the man’s family food and to give back the money his father had taken. He could have gone to the man’s shop in the daylight, but Arthur did not wish to make the late Duke’s misdeeds common knowledge. He was after justice, not social ruin.
/> Arthur had no desire to carry on his father’s activities and needed to find another source of income. Yes, he could live strictly on his inheritance, but he felt morally bound to return a vast amount of it to the families that needed it more. Instead, he had turned Rosenhill into a working estate wherein he endeavored to produce a wide range of agricultural goods.
He had procured a steady market in London for his wares and had hired some of his most loyal tenants to assist in working the land. His mother was furious with the idea. In her opinion, a duke did not work to earn his way in the world. A duke participating in manual labor was utterly abhorrent to her and went against every rule of his social standing.
“Just like your father, never content with what you have.” His mother had scorned his every notion to improve upon the estate’s holdings. She was a strict traditionalist when it came to one’s station in life. To her mind, inherited fortunes were a noble family’s right regardless of how it had been accrued. Mrs. Philips had raised him to believe otherwise. She had instilled in him a strong sense of responsibility, not for his father’ actions, but for his own legacy.
Mrs. Philips had taught him to embrace his ability to make a difference in the world through his labors, in spite of his title. It was a lesson he had hoped to pass on to his siblings, but his mother had blocked his attempts at every turn. Though he and the Duchess had lived in the same household his entire life, they were very much estranged over their philosophies of what life should be.
Were she to find out about his midnight excursions of mercy and atonement, she would make his life even more miserable than she already did. A fate he wished to avoid.
When night fell, and all was quiet, Arthur donned his disguise, stuffed a pistol in his belt, and slipped down the back stairs into the kitchen to find his promised food bundle awaiting him on the table. He hid his blonde hair beneath a hat and covered his face with a black woolen scarf. Throwing the bag of goods over his shoulder, he left the house. He mounted the waiting horse Mrs. Philips had instructed one of the grooms to saddle and headed into town.
As he moved through the cobbled streets, he made sure to stay within the shadows. He had no desire to fall prey to any of Denlington’s men who paroled the streets at night looking for opportunities to inflict trouble. As he rounded the corner onto the wagon maker’s street, he saw beneath the faded glow of the street lanterns three figures grappling in the darkness.
“Help! Help!” A feminine voice cried out from one of the figures, then was swiftly silenced by another.
Arthur could not make out anything they were saying from where he stood, but it was clear to him that a lady was in distress. Arthur dismounted and crept his way through the shadows until he stood so close to the perpetrators that he could have reached out and touched them.
He cocked his pistol and placed it to the head of the man who held a knife. “Unhand the lady. Now!”
“Alright, alright, we were just having a bit o’ fun,” the other man held his hands up to show that he was unarmed.
“’Twere nothing but a lark,” The man at the point of the muzzle agreed, dropped the knife and released the woman.
“I am sure the lady would beg to differ with your assessment of the situation.” Arthur motioned for the woman to get behind him. She swiftly and silently obeyed. “Now I have half a mind to turn you both over to the magistrate, so I suggest you run along before I act on it.”
The two men fled back down the alleyway disappeared from sight. “Thank you,” the lady spoke from behind him. “You are most kind to have come to my aid.”
“I suggest you not linger long unchaperoned upon the streets at night, Madam. It sends the wrong message, attracting less than respectable attentions,” Arthur warned. “May I escort you home?”
“No, thank you. I will be fine from here.”
The next thing he knew, she scurried away as quickly as her petite form would carry her. He had not gotten a clear look at the poor creature and hoped that she was unharmed.
Arthur retrieved his horse and advanced to the wagon maker’s abode. The terrified look in the woman’s eyes stuck with him the rest of the night. He found himself wishing he had gotten her name so that he might reassure himself as to her wellbeing. He was reasonably certain that the assailants had once been employed by his father and he felt a small amount of responsibility for their actions.
He knocked on the wagon maker’s door, and a mousey haired, grey-eyed woman answered the door. “Miss B…” she began then stopped.
“My apologies if you were expecting someone else. I know the hour is late, but I am looking for Mr. Wainwright. Is he at home?” Arthur observed her wary expression. “It has been brought to my attention that he overpaid his legacy duties. I have come to remedy the oversight.”
“Mr. Wainwright is feeling poorly and not up for company, but I am his wife,” the woman answered, not offering to allow his entry.
He wondered who she had been expecting in the middle of the night. It is none of my business. Just do what you came to do and move on. Do not get involved.
Arthur handed the woman the sack of food. “The money is inside the bag with a few other items I included as an apology for the misunderstanding.”
The woman peered inside the sack and her eyes widened at the sight. “Thank you, sir!”
Arthur tipped his hat in respect. “Think nothing of it. I bid you a good night, Mrs. Wainwright.”
“And you, sir.” The daunted look of pleasure and relief upon her face was one he would not soon forget.
Having made his delivery, Arthur melted back into the night, mounted his horse, and headed for home.
* * *
Eliza was in a daze the rest of the way home. She slipped through the back door unnoticed and crawled into bed. It had been an eventful night. First with Mr. Wainwright’s leg, then she was accosted on the streets by two ruffians and ended with her daring rescue by a masked stranger. It was like something out of one of her books.
Who is he?
She could still see his brilliant blue eyes in her mind, clear as an unclouded sky in summer. She had never been accosted in such a manner before, and she knew that she had been wrong to let her guard down. It had been a risk to traipse around town alone in the middle of the night. I should have been more careful. I am fortunate that a gentleman was in close enough proximity to save me.
She shuddered to think what might have happened had he not scared her attackers away.
Eliza promised herself she, from that point forward, she would do her charity work only in the daylight. If she couldn’t get away during any given day, then she would just have to wait until the next one. No more putting herself at risk by such foolish behavior. If the Coles questioned her absence, she would simply have to tell them the truth, whether they approved or not. It would not be pleasant to admit having taken food from their kitchen without permission, but she had faced worse.
Eliza lay awake for most of the night and fell asleep just before daybreak. When Mrs. Cole called for her to arise, she did not hear a word of it.
“Eliza…Eliza!” Mrs. Cole’s voice melded with her dreams turning into the voice of her birth mother on that fatal night.
“Mother?” Eliza spoke without waking. “Do not let them kill you, Mother!”
“Eliza! Wake up,” Mrs. Cole demanded, shaking her to break through the fog. “You promised you would assist me today. We must ready the house for my afternoon guest.”
From the doorway, Henry observed, “It looks like she had a difficult night, Mother. Perhaps you should let her rest. It is only your friend, Mrs. Philips, that is coming. The house is sufficient as it is.”
“Mrs. Philips is the head housekeeper at Rosenhill. She keeps an immaculate house, and I will not force her to suffer through anything less when she is here. We may not be able to offer her the elegant splendor she is accustomed to, but we will offer cleanliness,” Mrs. Cole argued.
The exchange between mother and son caused Eliza
to emerge from her dreams, tears streaming down her cheeks. The sound of her birth mother calling her name had felt so real. Her head ached, and her body felt as if it had been trampled.
As her mind cleared, she remembered the cause of her discomfort. I must have been jostled about more than I thought during last night’s events.
“Eliza,” Mrs. Cole tried once more.
“I am awake,” Eliza replied. She opened her eyes and a sharp pain stabbed through her head at facing the light.
“Good. Please, arise and join me in the kitchen. We have much to do today,” Mrs. Cole requested, then bustled out of the room issuing orders to all of her children.
The Defiant Governess of Rosenhill Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 3
